


Nuttier Than A Fruitcake

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-02
Updated: 2007-07-14
Packaged: 2019-01-19 15:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12413127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Book Two in the 'Lily' series, Nuttier Than A Fruitcake, portrays Lily's fifth year at Hogwarts, a time filled with hormones, confusion, and of course, run ins with the ever obnoxious, James Potter.





	1. Return To Sanctity

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Nuttier Than A Fruitcake**

_Book Two In The ‘Lily’ Series_

**Chapter One -- Return To Sanctity**

August, 31, 1975 

3:02 PM 

My Bedroom 

Upon opening this fresh, new diary, I have discovered that I’m not particularly fond of emptiness. I mean, in my old diary, I could simply flip back a few pages to recall what I was thinking about on a certain day or how I felt after a certain event (probably traumatized, knowing my life). But, now, with this _new_ diary, I have nothing to look back to. It now requires more than a mere thirty seconds to discover what I wrote about during the course of last year.

Mum didn’t need to insist upon buying a new diary though. I was more than willing to concede to that particular demand of hers. Honestly, I like writing in a diary. I mean, it’s a relief, really, because if I don’t get my thoughts out of my head, it’s likely that they’re bound to come out of my mouth, which isn’t always the cherry on top of my sundae, if you know what I mean. 

Originally, my mother brought this diary idea about because she was concerned about my relationship with my sister. Or, so she said. To tell you the truth, I’m beginning to think that perhaps she thought I’d transfigure Petunia into a rodent of some sort. Not that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind on occasion, but I wouldn’t do that to my own sister. It’s not like I’m in need of anger management or anything.. 

Good thing Holly or James Potter isn’t here. Otherwise, I would have received some sort of snarky comment on that last line. Since you’re new to all of this, diary, I should probably explain. Gah, I really do HATE the fact that there’s nothing to look back to in this journal. You see, now I have to explain what it is that happened last year that could potentially provide reason to both my best friend and James Potter’s statements regarding the control I have over my temper. Or lack thereof. 

Last year, I was at the ripe age of fourteen. I was vulnerable, I was weak. I had an extreme problem with controlling my mane of wild, frizzy red hair. And so, when James Potter would push my buttons, I reacted in what one could say was an ‘irresponsible’ manner. It’s not like I was a ticking time bomb or anything. It was just Potter. He was the only person I ever inflicted bodily harm upon and really, I don’t see how that could possibly constitute the fact that I’m in need of anger management. Take any sane person and lock them in a room with James Potter for two hours and see if the stupid boy walks away unscathed. 

But, why am I even telling you all of this anyways? You’re a book. You don’t need to understand what I write about. It’s not like you have a mind of your own. Although, sometimes I do believe it’s as if I’m writing letters to some pen pal off in the Czech Republic. Not a bad idea, really, except for the language barrier.

Anyways, back to my mother. Apparently, she’s been worrying about me and well, she feels that this diary is my savior. I tried to explain to her that really, you’re just a book that I write in every so often. But, she wouldn’t hear any of it. 

It’s been rather difficult going an entire summer without writing anything at all. I’ve had to keep it all inside, mustering up all the self-control I have to avoid any serious confrontation with my sister and her boyfriend, who, might I add, has fingers that resemble breakfast links. 

Vernon Dursley 

**The following has been observed by a Miss Lily Evans from June 30, 1975 to the present date. All quotations were taken directly from the source, Vernon Dursley.**

_“Lucky for you, your father is an entrepreneur and can probably squeeze you into the family business. Because, let’s face it, Lisa, you’re not exactly cut out for the drilling industry.”�_

\--Vernon Dursley 

There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don’t even know where to begin.

First of all, my father is a milk man. So, assuming that Vernon Dursley is aware of that fact, I can pretty much say that he was suggesting that I deliver milk for the rest of my life. I’m flattered, to say the least.

Secondly, as you may have noticed ‘new’ diary, my name is Lily. Not too difficult to remember, although, for someone as important as Vernon Dursley, remembering the name of his girlfriend’s sister is hardly a priority. 

And finally, after having had dinner with Vernon three nights a week for the past two months, I don’t remember _ever_ expressing any desire in pursuing an occupation at Grunnings. Nor do I remember expressing desire in _his_ work at Grunnings. Actually, now that I think about it, the word Grunnings never even crossed my mind the entire time I was in the presence of Vernon. 

It’s safe to say that Vernon Dursley is a right slag. Aside from having to endure the meathead three times a week for two solid months, my summer hasn’t been a bed of roses. My grandmother, a wicked, wicked, wicked trollop, insisted upon having me stay at her home for at least two weeks. I would, luckily enough, be able to come home for dinners and what-not. God forbid I miss out on those. But, the dinners were far less traumatizing in comparison to that of Grandmother Evans. 

That woman is horrible, I tell you. No wonder my dad’s a milkman. I mean, with a mother that bizarre, he had to pick the most normal profession in the world to overcome it. 

_Rosemary Evans’ List Of Improvements && Critiques_

001) “Honestly, Lily, with hair that color, it’s a wonder someone doesn’t run you over. I mean, if I were driving in my car and I saw you walking down the road, I think I would go out of my way to run you over.”� 

And here I’ve been told that I was the spitting image of this lanky ol’ broad in her day. Ha, right, must have slipped her mind. 

_002) “Your mother tells me you still have that deformed monster. If I saw that bloody cat walking down the road, I’d be sure to just run my car right over it.”�_

You see, Grandmother Evans may seem like a cruel, heartless bag, but in all reality, my mother just says she’s going through ‘her time’ and during ‘her time’, she is prone to develop a fixation upon running things over. Me, my one-eyed cat, etc. I mean, if I got hot flashes, I’m sure I’d want to run things over as well. 

_003) “How am I supposed to marry you off, young lady, if you don’t even know how to properly waltz? Waltzing is basically the most important thing in a relationship next to screwing.”�_

I told you she was a dirty trollop. I really miss Hogwarts. I really, really do. No talk of waltzing or screwing there. Well, at least no talk of waltzing. 

Only one more day in this hellhole. Only one more dinner. Only one more night of insanity before many, many nights of sanctity. 

**September 1, 1975**

10:15 PM 

Fifth Year Girls’ Dorm

Now, normally Holly and I are completely disgusted by the kinds of girls who go around hugging each other and all that jazz, but when I saw my best friend for the first time in two months, after having had to endure the brainless meathead and my senile grandmother, I literally began bawling my eyes out. And the funny thing was, she did the same. And we were hugging for a good ten minutes before Sirius Black told us to get a room.

Totally goes to show you that the Marauders are composed of insensitive, pig-headed jerks. But, I was far too happy to see my best and only friend to even give two one-eyed kittens.

But, after the ten minutes of non-stop crying and hugging, we went back to normal. Thank Merlin, too, because if we’d developed the kind of friendship the gits in our dorm share, I’d have to call on my grandmother and personally ask her to run myself _and_ Holly over. I mean, I love the fact that I can say anything I please to Holly and she won’t take it out of context. And vice versa. Although, according to her, she’s developed a fear of my hypothetical raging temper. Hypothetical being the key word because, the truth of the matter is, I don’t need anger management.

It felt so good to just enjoy myself for once. I mean, the kids at my school had the entire summer to mull over the fact that Snape and I really have never shown even the slightest romantic interest in one another. Over the course of two months, I can only assume they’ve either come to their own conclusions, realized the impossibility of the situation, grown tired of the subject, or forgotten about it completely. As long as there’s no word that I’ll be bringing a little Snape, Jr. into the world anytime soon, I’m a happy camper.

But, no, there was no mention of myself and the slimy haired git. One could quite possibly take this news as a good sign that I am no longer doomed. This year, my fifth year at Hogwarts, could honestly turn out for the best. Not only am I the new Gryffindor Prefect, but, I mean, I no longer have to serve detention every night with James Potter and Severus Snape. Always a good thing to hear, right?

And speaking of James Potter, he’s grown even more obnoxious with time. I mean, _I_ remember leaving on bad terms with him. _He_ obviously let the thought slip his mind. I mean, while I was walking the aisle, Holly far, far ahead of me and scoping out the compartment situation (for when I finished Prefect duties), I felt someone tap me on the shoulder almost insistently. If Holly and her brother didn’t go running every morning at the crack of dawn, I’d probably have had her by my side and there to handle the situation for me. But, alas, I blame her and her professional Quidditch playing brother for my encounter with James Potter, a boy who, as he informed me, ‘refuses to give up’.

_The following is a direct quote taken from a run-in between Lily Evans and James Potter aka Chauvinistic Pig._

“Evans, Evans, Evans. You thought that you’d be able to just slap me across the face, beat the living pulp out of me, throw pumpkin juice all over my robes, punch me in front of Slughorn and the rest of your upstanding club mates, and slam a door in my face after I was levitated up to your dorm and fell through your window? No, no, no. It’s not that easy to get rid of me. I, James Potter, swear with all the power invested in me as a Marauder that I shall not let this crusade go idle. It shall live on, Evans. And I shall never give up!”�

And it was that statement, that wounded, tragic statement, that allowed James to officially earn his new title; cockroach. No matter how many times you flush, they just keep crawling back up the bowl.

He said all of this on bended knee, mind you, to which I had to restrain myself from kicking him in the face. So, now, the rumors are no longer about Severus Snape and I. James Potter, apparently, is the current buzz and his wishes of pursuing Lily Evans only brings more sparks to the already ignited gossip circuit. 

If he’d have asked for a private word, I might have found the gesture sweet. But, considering his friends were snickering in the background and the entire school was eavesdropping while James Potter shouted his bloody oath to me, I was rather disgusted by it. Anything to bring attention to himself, really.

Despite that display of unwanted affection, this year has come off to a grand start. Remus Lupin, my former snogging partner (alright, we kissed once and it could hardly be considered a snog), is my co-Prefect for the year. Thank Merlin it was him and not some insufferable prat like James Potter or Sirius Black. Even Peter Pettigrew, a boy with his head shoved deeply up his own arse, would be preferable to a member of the devious duo. 

Although, really, I can’t say that this year started off without a tad bit of embarrassment. After Dumbledore dismissed us Prefects to go and give the first years a tour of the castle, I made a slight mistake in whom I was talking to. I swear to you, this tweed of a boy was just sitting at the table as the other first years obediently followed mine and Remus’ voices. So, in order to get the ignorant prat up from his seat, I started shouting in his bloody ear, telling him that if he couldn’t handle obliging to the authority every now and then, he was going to have a rough seven years ahead of him.

It was only when Remus informed me that the prat I was screaming at was in the fourth year that the embarrassment started to sink in. 

I can already tell that I’m going to be a horrible Prefect. Bless the school for what they will have to endure over the next three years. I’m sure that tonight’s display was only a preview of what’s next to come.

**A/N: So, this is the first chapter of the new story, which is a sequel to my story, ‘Lily’. If you have not read that story, I suggest you do or else you will be lost. So, in order to avoid aggravating me with questions, do go read the story. I can only hope this one will become as successful as it’s prequel. Hope you enjoyed! Will update as soon as I can. Please review! Thanks!**


	2. Anger Management

**Nuttier Than A Fruitcake**

_Book Two In The ‘Lily’ Series_

**Chapter Two -- Anger Management**

   
 **September 2, 1975**

**9:35 PM**

**Fifth Year Girls’ Dorm**

For the first time in the previous four years we’ve attended Hogwarts together, Holly Spinnet has never woken me up. If, by chance, she did wake up before I did, she’d slump down to the Great Hall without even a passing word. But, this morning, to my surprise, I felt her shaking me rapidly from my bed and throwing Jules onto the floor to better allow me to get dressed.

It was insanity, I tell you. I knew something was up the instant I saw her smiling and felt her hand grab my wrist, pulling me down the stairs. I hadn’t even properly changed. Our first day of classes and I was wearing green flannel pajamas, my trainers (untied, of course), and my hair was stacked on my head in a completely unattractive manner. 

Good thing I don’t sleep in a face mask like some of the girls in our dorm. I’d have been even more embarrassed. But, due to the monstrosity I refer to as my fourth year, this didn’t phase me. I’d had more embarrassing things happen to me (ie: Operation Turtleneck) than being dragged down to the Great Hall in my flannel pajamas (courtesy of Grandmother Evans. That woman has the worst taste I’ve _ever_ seen).

I’d have much preferred to be dressed in something resembling an outfit, but hey, I’m Lily Evans, queen of cool. I’m poised, rational, and well, I go with the flow. And if that means eating breakfast with my hair resembling that of a red mushroom cloud, then so be it.

To tell you the truth, I was onto Holly. I wasn’t exactly sure why she was dragging me down to the Great Hall. When I asked her why she was so eager to get to breakfast, she practically bit my head off.

“Because, Lily, breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” she insisted, flopping us down onto a seat at the Gryffindor table and indulging herself in a stack of chocolate chip pancakes, smeared with tons of butter and chocolate sauce. Quite the healthy breakfast, if you ask me, Miss ‘Breakfast Is The Most Important Meal Of The Day’. She’s lucky she and her professional Quidditch playing brother go on ridiculously insane jogs nearly every morning during the summer.

It wasn’t until an owl dropped down near my plate of bacon that I realized Holly Spinnet was indeed up to something. I _never_ get mail. Ever. She knows this. It’s not that I don’t like getting mail. Frankly, it’s the opposite. I’m always jealous that Holly gets stacks and stacks of mail, while I’m lucky to get a complimentary advertisement from the Daily Prophet. And do you know what she does every single time she gets a stack of mail while my side of the table starts forming cobwebs? Gloats, of course. I’m unworthy of mail of my own, apparently, so sometimes she tosses me a Witch Weekly. That’s pretty much the highlight of my month right there. 

But, this year, on the first day of classes, even, I receive a nice, clean white envelope from a strange owl that resembles that of a school owl. Who in the name of Salazar Slytherin’s hellhole is writing to me?

As soon as I saw the printing on the front of the envelope, I knew that this was quite out of the ordinary. But, I kept my suspicions at ease. It was perfectly normal for a daughter to receive mail from her mother. But, well, for me to receive mail from my mother, Mrs. Evans, wasn’t exactly everyday news. My mum only wrote to me to give me updates on Petunia’s boyfriend and well, I saw him two days ago so I’m all updated.

Slowly opening the letter, I read the words with a sense of inquiry and foreboding.

_Lily,_

_Yes, it’s your dear old mum writing you. I realize that we only just saw each other yesterday, but I was just writing to let you know how much I love you. Your father and I both love you._

_Although he can’t be here right now, he’s off delivering milk like the trooper he is, he wants you to know that he loves you so much, as well._

At this point, I must have looked like I’d had a Botox injection or something because, really, this was all rather surprising. I mean, I love my parents, yes, but we’ve never really had the sort relationship where we go throwing around the ‘love’ word. 

_Now, sweetheart, we realize that in the past we haven’t always been there for you as much as you may have needed. We’re not exactly the most attentive parents when it comes down to your world. But, we are here for you any time. We don’t want you to feel that you need to resort to anger in order to capture our attention._

_You really should thank your friend, Holly, for us. If it wasn’t for her, we wouldn’t have realized what horrible parents we’ve been._

**Please Excuse This Interruption. The Author, Lily Evans, Has Now Reached Over And Clobbered Holly Spinnet.**

I exploded. I swear to you, if I didn’t need anger management before, I do now. 

“You went to my parents?” I asked her incredulously, almost stunned in disbelief. “You went to my parents? You went to my parents!?”

I kept repeating it over and over again. I wasn’t expecting her to have talked to my mum. My poor, dear mum thinks she’s a horrible parent. Well, she’s not getting a trophy this year or anything, but she’s not half-bad. Actually, now that I think about it, she gave me a diary because she was scared of what I’d do to my sister if I didn’t write down my feelings. It probably didn’t take much convincing on Holly’s part to get my mother to believe I was in need of anger management.

Oh, there’s more to the letter, as well. And let me just say that my Grandmother Evans is still a dirty, dirty, dirty trollop. Always three dirty’s when describing her trollop-ness because she’s three times dirtier than the average trollop.

_Last night I talked this issue over with your father’s mother (you know how she likes being involved) and Grandmother Evans wished to enclose her own note. Let me just say that this does not reflect the opinions and/or ideas of the Evans family._

I knew it was going to be bad if my mother had to insert a disclaimer before pasting Grandmother Evans’ thoughts into the letter.

_I should have ran you over last summer when I saw how red-haired and muckle-mouthed you were. Last night I was ready to grab my damn suitcase and take a cab all the way to that bloody school of yours just so I could beat you over the head with my walking stick. Enclosed you will find a turtleneck. Thank my anger management coach. Sven feels I need to sort out my pent up emotions through knitting._

As if that letter couldn’t have gotten anymore bizarre. My grandmother not only thinks I’m muckle-mouthed (what the hell?!), but she’s also enrolled in an anger management program. And all these years I thought the turtlenecks were the result of bad taste and my grandfather’s failure to entertain my grandmother.

Boy, was I wrong. Upon later inspection of the turtleneck, I have discovered that the knitting is quite professional. This can only mean that my grandmother, senile bag that she is, has been in anger management for a very long time.

What if it’s a genetic condition? Can violent rage skip a generation? Or, what if my poor, innocent, milkman of a father has anger issues as well? It certainly wouldn’t be a surprise to me, considering the news of Grandmother Evans’ ‘out of the closet’ problem.

It actually amused me, the entire Grandmother Evans note. At least at the time it did. I couldn’t even be mad at Holly. I mean, I was rather pissed off about being called muckle-mouthed, seeing as I have no idea what that means, but the fact that my grandmother thought she’d reach Hogwarts by cab was hysterical. 

I think Holly was rather confused when I started high-fiving her, but hey, I’d rather her be confused than worried about the short fuse that is, apparently, my temper.

**September 3, 1975**

**11:32 AM**

**Great Hall**

This morning I had to endure double Potions with my hypothetical grandfather, Slughorn. Considering what happened at the last Slug Club meeting, he was extremely cautious when walking near my cauldron this morning. This only leads me to believe that, maybe, Holly isn’t hallucinating. Maybe I am in need of anger management.

But why should I seek professional help when, really, I have a firm grasp of my problem and well, I’m a smart girl. I’m sure I can think of a solution on my own. I can seize control of my problem and resolve it in a way that will cost me absolutely nothing. I mean, my father’s a milkman. We’re not exactly made of money, here. 

Grandmother Evans is rather wealthy, but I’d have to be stupid, not desperate, to go asking her for money. She’d probably hire someone else to run me over, considering me unworthy of the time and effort it would take her to do the job herself.

Now that I think about it, I really don’t think she was too angry about my supposed need for anger management. Rather, I think she was just mad that I was born red-headed and without the ability to naturally waltz. 

As I was contemplating the most efficient way of suppressing my anger, I heard Sirius Black snickering behind me. And to no one’s surprise, almost two seconds following the laughter, I felt a hand tap my shoulder insistently once more. James Potter really didn’t know how to take no for an answer.

As I turned around, he was holding his new cauldron (empty, by the way) and grinning like a mad fool. And, at the top of his voice, mind you, he began professing his undying love for me.

Honestly, I don’t get it. Last year, he only ‘kind of’ liked me. This year, he wants to create red-headed offspring for my grandmother to run over. If anyone needs some therapy, it’s James bloody Potter. He’s absolutely delusional.

But, of course, it gave me a chance to practice my new, reserved outlook on life. No longer would I use violence to express the rage I was feeling. I’d verbally respond with polite, direct words and make my point absolutely crystal clear. 

At least, those were my intentions.

“Evans,” he cried out, catching the attention of the entire Potions class, including Severus Snape, my supposed ex-flame. Taking the chance to deepen his voice, Potter went on. “This cauldron I hold here in my pleading, desperate hands, represents the eternal bond that is my love for you.”

I’m not stupid, diary. I’m really not. But, well, I just couldn’t see where he was going with this. 

“It’s an empty cauldron, Potter,” I told him, rolling my eyes and throwing some basil mercilessly into my brewing potion. Hey, if he was going to take up my time, I was at least going to be productive about it. 

He looked into the cauldron, frowning slightly as if he had only just realized this. He chose to ignore my comment and move onto what his real explanation was. “It’s big though, Evans. A huge, cauldron. Lots of space, rather roomy. Loads of room for love. Do you see what I’m getting at here? I have loads of room for you in my life. Loads, Evans. Just look at the cauldron.”

“I don’t need to look at the cauldron, Potter,” I told him, my tone rather blasé. I was staying cool, calm, and collected. I don’t know why I was staying cool, calm, and collected, but I figured that it must be helpful in anger management. Plus, I was in the presence of Potter. I was bound to become angry. “Because, to be honest, I don’t care about you or your dumb cauldron. And, please, stop shouting. I’m less than a foot away from you.”

If he wasn’t so obnoxious about everything, I’d cut the poor bloke a break and keep the public rejections to a minimum. But, no, he just doesn’t seem to learn.

He pretty much slumped away after that, but it sort of made me relieved. I mean, I didn’t inflict any bodily harm upon him and I had good reason to. He was trying to embarrass me again. I mean, the thought of picking up the cauldron and sticking his fat head into it so it’d get stuck _did_ cross my mind about three times during the entire conversation, but that is besides the point. 

When everyone was about to leave, I decided that well, I needed a second opinion on this whole anger management ordeal. Holly was already accounted for and well, she’s basically my only close friend in the entire school. Potter and Snape are two people I don’t want to talk to upon choice. And so, I was left with Slughorn. 

And plus, well, he was the only one in the room at the time and I was feeling impulsive. And so, I just spit it out.

“Professor Slughorn?” I called tentatively from my finished potion, frowning slightly. I was rather concerned, you know. Anger management is no slice of pie.

“Miss Evans?” he asked, looking up at me in that remarkably grandfather-like way of his. Ah, if only Slughorn were my grandfather. I’m sure _he_ could find a way to amuse my grandmother, which in turn would reduce her need for knitting turtlenecks and anger management, which would also, in turn, reduce my own need for anger management. Confusing, I know. Or, well, he could just pop pineapples into her mouth and spend the day feeding her compliments about how brilliant I am.

Wow, that completely depressed me just now. 

Anyways, now that I’ve completely drifted from my point..

“Well, um, out of all my professors, you seem to know me the best and really, I was just hoping I could get your opinion on something,” I told him, wringing my hands like the fool that I was (and am). “You see, my best friend thinks I need the assistance of anger management in my life. So, sir, I came here to ask you whether you believe me to be an angry person?”

And do you know what I got?

“Lily’s so cheeky.”

Screw the whole ‘Slughorn can be my grandfather’ speech. At least my real grandfather’s head isn’t full of bloody sawdust.

Honestly. Cheeky. You know what’d be cheeky? Throwing a blasted pineapple at his thick head. That’d be real cheeky.

Note: Must advise Marauders to throw pineapple at Slughorn’s head. 

**A/N: Well, what’d you think? Am I taking the anger management thing too far? I mean, I try to have a reoccurring theme in each story. Like, last story was the one-eyed cat bit and this story, I’m going for the anger management thing. Let me know what you think. Please review!**


	3. Quidditch Qualms

 

**Nuttier Than A Fruitcake**

 

_Book Two In The ‘Lily’ Series_

**Chapter Three -- Quidditch Qualms**

 

 

****September 25, 1975** **

****5:37 PM** **

****Common Room** **

**** It’s taken me a good two weeks, but I’ve finally gotten Holly off of my back about that whole anger management business. Yet, this has required a lot of self-restraint on my part. You see, in order for Holly to fully believe that I’m just an angst-ridden fifteen year old girl opposed to a demonic hothead, she’s been testing me. Yes, I know. I felt the same way when she began her evaluations. What kind of best friend feels the need to conduct assessments? Holly Spinnet, of course. Honestly, and people think _I’m_ the eccentric one? 

Anyways, these examinations have been silly, stupid things, mainly to catch me off-guard. For example, we could be sitting in our dorm, talking about boys or make-up, or even music and Holly’ll let slip some sort of comment that she _knows_ I’d normally get fired up about (last week it was, “What’s the name of that bloke from the Beatles -- the one with the funny glasses?” I think I nearly choked to death on my own spit) and if I can rationally respond without losing my top, then I’ve gained a point. 

I’m not even kidding about this. Her mum is a psychologist so, well, I blame Mrs. Spinnet for her daughter’s absurdities and well, her newfound tendency to carry around a clipboard. 

These evaluations are sort of a benefit on my part though, seeing as no one really feels I’m strange anymore, what with Holly to compare me to. 

She’s now thoroughly convinced that she miscalculated and that I’m not endangering her existence, nor am I a serious threat to anyone in the castle. Other than James Potter, but well, he’s always some sort of bloody exception.

You should see her right now, diary. I mean, of course you can’t see her, since you’re a book and all, but if you were a person, I swear to you, you’d fall over in fits of laughter. I’m on the brink of it right now, but I’m holding back as the common room is rather crowded and I don’t need anymore rumors to pop up about me while I’m finally managing to blend in again. 

Right now, she’s sitting at an armchair with these thick black glasses (no lenses, mind you, since she doesn’t actually _need_ glasses) and her clip board and is scribbling away. She’s been looking at poor Peter Pettigrew for the past two hours and the boy has just about wet himself with anxiety. I’m sure she’s noticed this as well, since she’s the one causing him to get so nervous and fidgety. 

If I was more selfless, I probably would go explain Holly’s behavior to him, but alas, I’m actually sort of enjoying it. 

Bullocks, James Potter is making his way over here. Swaggering, is more like it. Luckily, I’m not in need of anger management or else, well, I’d probably do something extremely rash, extremely violent, and something that would be extremely frowned upon by the Gryffindor house as a whole. 

Good thing I’m sensible.

Thank Merlin it’s not me he wants to talk to, although I can’t help but notice he’s been looking my way the entire time he’s been talking to Holly. Good thing I’ve got my death glare on. 

I am no tease, thank you very much.

Apparently, the Gryffindor Quidditch team is having their first practice tomorrow afternoon. Holly, alongside Potter, is one of the Chasers for the team and although she is quite interested in pursuing a career in professional Quidditch like her brother, Neal, the field of psychology and social sciences has caught her eye. 

So, typically, she’d place that before Quidditch. She’s still attending practice, of course, but this next bit is truly what’s got my hat in a knot.

At the prospect of the upcoming practice, Peter Pettigrew pipes in, “Oy, James, think I’ll stop by and watch.”

And if Peter’s going to the practice, that means Lily’s going to the practice. With Holly’s dandy clipboard. And if I protest, we all know the anger management issue will reappear and I’ll become her guinea pig once more. 

So, now I’m stuck going to the god awful Quidditch practice and observing Peter Pettigrew’s every move. How pathetic is my existence? Really.

****September 26, 1975****

****3:15 PM** **

****Quidditch Pitch** **

**** I’ve been sitting out here for a good two hours and the team is still bloody practicing! I mean, how long can they do the same thing over and over again? Oh, and little did I know, Potter made Captain this year. Lucky, Holly. I, personally, thought it should have been her, but as is everything else, Quidditch is a bit of a popularity contest.

For the first hour, they did land drills. What do they need land drills for? They’re going to be flying! Potter made this long, overdramatic speech at the beginning of the session. I didn’t really hang onto his every word, but the gist of it was that he wanted the team to be in the best physical condition possible. 

I really don’t understand the logic behind the running they’ve been doing. I mean, you can be positively tiny or the size of Hagrid and it won’t matter as long as you can catch the stupid Snitch. Or whatever position you happen to be playing. My opinion is probably a bit skewed though since I’m afraid of heights and well, I’ve never played Quidditch. 

And you know what else? Pettigrew is driving me mad. I mean, I’ve never really watched Peter before. I know who he is, I’ve talked to him in class or in the halls every so often, but I’ve never really noticed how positively _awkward_ he is. He sits with his shoulders slumped over, as if he has some sort of hunchback and even worst, he claps in delight over the smallest of things. Not just for Potter either! Or Black. Anything done remotely well by the entire team in general sends him over the moon.

Excitable is probably the best way to describe him. 

Psychology is certainly not the field for me. As observant as I can be, I am equally as petty and cynical. Therapists are supposed to be understanding and great listeners, while, I’ll admit, I tend to enjoy doing the talking. If I had a patient and say they had some sort of irrational phobia, I would probably tell them to go bonk their head against a tree to get over it. 

Maybe that’s why Holly’s mum always gives me such pointed looks.

Really, I think I’ve written enough about Pettigrew. It’s not my fault Holly can’t seem to choose between Quidditch and her new obsession of studying fellow students. For now, I’m just going to sit and watch the rest of practice without even giving Peter Pettigrew so much as a second glance. I mean, I do have a history in stalking Gryffindor boys. What if he thinks I’m staring at him because I’m harboring some sort of secret crush on him? Don’t even think of considering me paranoid either. This sort of thing has happened before. Do I need to remind you of the Snape rumor of ‘74?

I do enjoy watching Quidditch. I mean, I understand it. If I didn’t, I’m sure one of the fanatics in our house would have gone on a rampage and explained it to me anyways. So, not knowing about Quidditch isn’t an option at Hogwarts. It’s just that before this practice, I never really knew how many people on the team I’m acquainted with.

There’s Holly, for one. My bestest pal in the entire world. Why? Couldn’t tell you. I really do need to get better taste in friends. I have the insane Holly and the one-eyed cat, Jules. No wonder my mother worries about my social habits. 

In all honesty, I’m kidding. As much as we fight, as annoying as we may be to one another, there’s no more room in my heart for another best friend. Even if she’s gone off her rocker.

And then, there’s Potter. Of course I knew _he_ was on the team. Has been for three blasted years. Quidditch would be so much more enjoyable if I didn’t have to endure his constant bragging in the common room, his swooning fans in the stands, or the constant buzz around the castle pertaining to the immeasurable amount of skill the ‘young Potter boy’ has. Fine, I’ll admit he’s a fairly good Chaser. But I still don’t think he deserved to get Captain. McGonagall’s far too biased, I tell you. 

How can I forget Johnson’s on the team? Well, actually, it’s rather easy. I didn’t even know Logan Johnson was the Keeper of the team until I started stalking him. Pretend stalking, actually. No one in their right mind would stalk Logan Johnson. He’s duller than a bag of bricks.

As to how Sirius Black got on the team, I will never know. Just from watching this one practice, I have learned that he has traditional rituals he must perform before actually hopping onto his broom. Everyone else on the team seemed to be fairly used to this behavior, but if I were Captain, that nonsense would end. Discipline, I tell you. Discipline. As a Prefect, I wanted to take five points from Gryffindor house just because I had to endure such stupidity. 

Since this is Frank Longbottom’s last year at Hogwarts, I would have assumed that even if Holly hadn’t gotten Captain, he at least would have. But, alas, he’s pretty much a crap Chaser, so well, I guess McGonagall had her reasons. Poor Frank. He’s always getting badgered at by the younger students. Only seventh year on the team and he’s being bossed around by some stupid, big-headed fifth year who needs to have his head flushed down the loo (which I would be more than happy to assist in). 

Truth be told, I don’t particularly know who Black’s fellow Beater is. It’s a girl, mind you. Fourth year, I think. She’s rather bulky and well, I can see why she was chosen. She’s a much better Beater than Black, whose aim tends to go askew at the sight of any sudden movement (ie. pigeons, people, leaves floating through the wind). Pretty much anything distracts him. Luckily, ol’ Hodder (that’s what she answers to) has got those Bludgers covered.

The Seeker, little Astrid Asher, is new, as well. She’s extremely good, but apparently not good enough for Potter. I hope I’m not being conceited or anything, but I swear to you, in the midst of practice, when Astrid was having a rough time catching up to the Snitch, Potter jumps from what he’s doing and dives right in front of Astrid, catching the Snitch and giving himself a right pat on the back. Stupid prat. 

He was looking at me the entire time, as if to show me that he could catch the Snitch without the use of his eyes. Did he honestly think I was going to be impressed with this show of ‘terrific’ talent? No. This is James Potter. Prat and a half. Astrid was gaining on that Snitch and if he hadn’t jumped in front of her, she’d have been all over it. 

And it’s not like it was a game either. And when he did that, when he caught the Snitch, do you know what Peter Pettigrew did?

Squealed. I’m not lying. I swear to you, I’m not. Even I’m not demented enough to claim that a fifteen year old boy was squealing. Almost as bad as Snape’s hissing habit.

****Same Day****

****9:52 PM** **

****Fifth Year Girls’ Dorm** **

After Potter’s little display of macho-ism, the team got rather pissed and decided that practice needed to end. Hear, hear, I always say. Black even got to the point where he swatted a Bludger at his supposed best friend’s forehead, but well, we all know about Black’s aim. He missed, of course. Should have got ol’ Hodder on his case. 

And poor Astrid Asher. She was almost in tears once they ended. Potter can be such an atrocious jerk when he wants to be. She’s rather good, considering she’s so tiny and frail. I mean, if he wanted to do the job, he shouldn’t have held try-outs for the Seeker position. Of course, I went and consoled the poor girl, handing her tissues and telling her about the time I saw Potter snogging a skrewt. I never actually saw Potter snogging a skrewt before, but well, I had a dream about it once and that must count for something. Made her cheer up a bit, to say the least.

Do you know what the first thing Holly said to me was? It wasn’t, “Gee, thanks, Lily. Only a true best friend would sit and stare at a slug like Peter Pettigrew for a good two hours.” No, it was more like, “Honestly, Lily, what kind of bloody observations are these?”

She said to write things down. Not _good_ things. Just things. I guess the fact that he has a sort of humpback when he slouches isn’t relevant to his psychological state. Psh, can’t blame a girl for noticing, can you?

The worst part of the day was once everyone had left. Madam Hooch had left me in charge of putting all the equipment away, since I’m a Prefect (just my luck, right?) and she noticed that I’d been sitting through the practice. She claimed she had some work to go and do, but I really know she was off to go and eat dinner, which is what I should have been doing, mind you. I knew being a Prefect would backfire against me someday. It’s not even two months into the school year and it’s already been more of a curse than a blessing.

As I was trying to shove those stupid Bludgers into the Gryffindor equipment trunk, I heard a laugh from behind me. And, of course, a chill went up my spine at the sound of that stupid, malicious, evil laugh. Stupid James Potter had followed me. And was laughing at me, nonetheless. Chipper way of swooning a girl, by the way, Potter. 

And he wonders why I won’t go out with him? It’s so painfully obvious that I am simply refusing to provide any sort of explanation to the no’s I provide him on an almost daily basis. 

Do you know what he did? He helped me put the Bludgers away, as if I was some sort of incompetent twit. Which, I was (and am), but the fact that he acknowledges my inferiority in the sport is just rude. 

To my relief, I’d put the Snitch away first. Consoling Astrid had been probably the wisest decision I’d made the entire day. She’d handed it over to me after I’d told her about Potter snogging a skrewt (kind girl that she is) and I’d immediately rushed into the equipment room to lock it up.

But, of course, it wasn’t as easy as that, was it? Nope. Not with James Potter, Mr. Disaster, lurking around. I mean, why did he have to choose me to torment? I really don’t think he realizes the extent of resentment towards him. 

Just as we’d finished tying down those damn Bludgers, he opened the little compartment that the Snitch was stored in and started tossing it inches in front of him, catching it just as it was about to fly away. I swear to you, after the day I’d had, I was in no mood to sit there and watch Potter show off. Because, that’s what he was doing. 

I didn’t even say anything. I didn’t have to. I just started reaching up, trying to take it from his hands. And, of course, the dumb fool thought it was some sort of game. It’s not my fault he’s freakishly tall. And, well, I happen to have the recessive genes in my family. 

When he finally did give up, handing it over to me, it slipped from my grasp, flying out the blasted door quickly, both me and Potter just looking after it in a state of slight shock. I think I was ready to cry. 

We’d stolen the Snitch. And lost it. Surely, there was going to be hell to pay. I was left in charge of the Snitch. Madam Hooch is going to know it was me. And Potter’ll get off, unscathed. 

With a wink, he ran off, hopping onto his broom and flying out the door. Where he was going, I don’t know. He didn’t even stay around to help me think of some sort of alibi. And it was his bloody fault we lost it. He was the one who was stupid enough to play with it. 

I haven’t mentioned it to Holly. I’m too ashamed. People are going to start calling me, “Klepto Lily” in the halls. Little first years are going to whisper behind my back, sprouting off that I’m ‘that girl who stole the Snitch because she’s mad’. Holly’s going to begin re-evaluating me, seeing if there’s some sort of connection between the anger management and kleptomaniac qualities. 

On the bright side…

Wait, there is no bright side.

****


	4. Case of the Missing Snitch

**Nuttier Than A Fruitcake**

_Book Two In The ‘Lily’ Series_

**Chapter Four -- Case of the Missing Snitch**

**September 26, 1975**

**10: 59 PM**

**Fifth Year Girls’ Dorm**

I must say something and diary, in the history of my writing in you, I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned this; James Potter is an oafish prat who ought to be force-fed owl dung for the rest of his pathetic existence. Alright, a bit harsh and well, unsurprising, I suppose, considering my history with Potter. It’s nothing he’s done to me, per say, but well, it’s the meaning behind his actions as of late.

It is because of James ‘I Really Hope He Has An Embarrassing Middle Name’ Potter that I was forced to attend a meeting with none other than Madam Hooch. And well, considering the fact that I am dead useless when it comes to anything involving flying, heights, and/or Quidditch, I knew this wasn’t about my recruitment as her protégé. No, no, no, this particular meeting was centered entirely around the missing snitch that she left in my ever-responsible care.

Now, there’s something I must say about Madam Hooch. She is scarier than all hell. I mean, she has never done a single thing to me _directly_ , but I suppose that my fear of her is a result of the flying lessons we were forced to take in our first year. Of course, the incessant, over analytical eleven-year old version of myself attempted to persuade Professor Dumbledore to exempt me from participating in such activities, but the crazed old man merely say, “It is overcoming fear that makes us stronger, Lily.” Rubbish, if you ask me. I don’t see how I’d be any stronger if I knew how to fly. 

It was as I was sitting before Madam Hooch that I realized it wasn’t her I was afraid of, it was flying. It was heights. It was the bloody broomstick that laid in the corner of her office, staring me blankly in the face and taunting me viciously, nearly screaming out, “Fall, fall, fall.”

Yet, I snapped back, focusing my attention on the questions Madam Hooch wished to ask me. It had been only one day since Potter went chasing after the snitch, after he let it go, mind you. It made me wonder exactly how close she paid attention to the Quidditch paraphernalia. Not even twenty-four hours after the incident and she knew. 

I remember wringing my hands in guilt, although really, I had nothing to feel guilty of. I was ashamed, of course, that I’d let Potter deliberately walk all over me. Truth be told, I had no idea where the snitch was. There was no way Potter could have caught up with it. He’d have to be bloody Superman, which, if I suggested this to him, he’d probably have no idea what I was talking about since he’s failing Muggle Studies. And no one with an ego equivalent to the monstrous size of Potter’s could go around selflessly saving people.

“Miss Evans, of all the people in the castle, you’d be the last person I’d suspect of theft.”

Those were the words that first came from Madam Hooch’s mouth when she got around to finally talking. Honestly, I thought she was just going to sit and look at me the entire time. Rather unnerving, really. 

And me, being the cheeky, no-good, ignorant fool, felt the need to respond as such, “That makes two of us. Now, can I leave? Your broomstick is making me uncomfortable.”

_Your broomstick is making me uncomfortable._

No wonder Holly has been putting me through those damn evaluations. It’s not anger management she’s testing, it’s my sanity. Well, I might as well break the news to her now; it’s shot to hell.

I knew I’d puzzled the Quidditch referee from the look on her face. I could imagine the countless things that were going through her mind at that moment, none of which were in my favor. She probably thought me to be some sort of compulsive criminal, one who steals for the rush, opposed to the personal gain.

I give her some credit for her patience though. She actually threw the broomstick into a storage closet. Although I could have lived without the violence of throwing such an object, I was thankful to have that mimicking, stupid piece of wood gone.

“Now, Lily, you were the last one in the supply room. Tell me, did you take the snitch?”

Well, I _was_ the last person in the supply room. But, technically, if Potter hadn’t have gone chasing after the damn thing, I’d have made him deal with the rest of the equipment. 

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, Lily. You can tell me. I’m your friend.”

She’s my what-now? My friend? Ew. I really do have bad taste in friends. 

“I didn’t take it.”

“Do you know who did take it?”

“Maybe it just flew away. It _does_ have wings.”

Alright, so I should have just turned Potter in. But, I was having far too much fun ‘overcoming my fear’. That Madam Hooch was just too easy. I only hoped she didn’t get really angry and swing at me because, well, I’m rather small in comparison and she’d clearly win in any hypothetical fight between the two of us.

Eventually, she got rather bored of my monotonous tone and monosyllabic replies. I was dismissed so that she may ‘mull things over’. Mull things over, my arse. She’d gone to Poppy to get some head medication in hopes of preventing an aneurysm. 

I hadn’t had the chance to properly explain the situation to Holly quite yet and so, it was after that meeting with Madam Hooch that I figured I ought to fill my best friend into the situation. She’d given me a rather curious glance as I informed her of my meeting with the Flying Instructor, my fear of heights being quite known throughout the castle, especially within our dorm where I often can be found cradling myself in my bed, clammy and pale as a ghost, from merely looking out the window. 

I was fully intending upon passing through the common room without muttering a word to anyone. All I really wanted was to go up to my dorm, rant a bit to Holly, and go to bed, hoping that by the next morning, I would stop feeling so bloody guilty for a crime I did not commit.

But, no, passing through the common room is never quite that easy with James Potter in the vicinity. I could sense his presence the minute I opened the portrait hole, hearing that atrocious laugh of his from all the way across the room. I refused to make eye contact with him, knowing all too well that he was attempting to attract my glance. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, especially since it was he who’d caused the release of the snitch upon the grounds. It was because of him that I’d spent an uncomfortable couple of hours being interrogated by Madam Hooch. If he had any sense at all, he’d just admit to the crime and attempt to get back on my good side, as if that were possible.

Just as I’d nearly reached the stairs, I felt his presence to my side, a huffy sigh escaping my lips as his hot breath hit my skin. It was rather creepy and unnerving if you ask me, but I suppose a moron such as Potter thought it was dreadfully romantic. Because _every_ girl wants a stupid bloke to intervene in her personal space. Made me melt in my shoes, I tell you.

Please, make note of the sarcasm used, diary. 

Although I was deliberately trying to avoid his gaze, something bright caught my eye, forcing me to face him, crossing my arms impatiently. It was when I managed to realize what exactly that bright object was that my mouth hung agape and my eyes grew wide. Potter had retrieved the snitch. And do you know what he was doing with it? Letting it fly a few feet in front of him, idly catching it without taking his eyes off of mine. Made me want to wring his neck. 

“So, Evans, just come back from your meeting with Hooch?” he asked me, his clan of no-goods (aka, the Marauders) watching our interaction with nearly comical looks upon their face, probably waiting for someone to whip out their wand and hex the hell out of the other’s face. Violent confrontations between myself and Potter were becoming rather notorious throughout the school. 

“How did you know about that, Potter?” I demanded fiercely, keeping my eyes off of that damn snitch and his so-called display of talent. 

He elicited a slight laugh, one that crept beneath my skin in a disconcerting manner. People such as Potter shouldn’t be given the opportunity to laugh. Completely contradicts the image of evil that society has cast upon them; society being me in this scenario. “You jest, surely. I’m the captain of the Quidditch team. Surely, any missing equipment is to be put upon my radar. Yep, had a meeting of myself with ol’ Hoochy this morning. She informed me that you were her prime suspect for the theft of such valuable merchandise.”

Narrowing my eyes, I couldn’t believe he was dangling such information before me. He’d had a meeting with Madam Hooch and hadn’t taken the time to inform her that yes, he happened to know what happened to the snitch. I really ought to have ratted him out when I had the chance. 

“Oh, and the fact that you happen to have the item in question within your possession happened to slip your mind, did it?”

And do you know what he told me before going off to have a good laugh with his friends? It sickens me to even write it down, diary.

“Hm, yes, I suppose it did.”

Honestly, James Potter brings the word schmuck to an entirely different level.

**September 30, 1975**

**4: 15 PM**

**Great Hall**

This morning, my perception of James Potter hardly faltered in the least. If anything, the feelings I have expressed towards him in the past have only exemplified in the last twenty-four hours. Never before have I been so humiliated. Well, ha, guess I can’t really say that, considering the numerous embarrassments I’ve brought to my name in the past. Nonetheless, this is quite high up on the humiliation factor.

As I’ve said before, the amount of mail I receive has always been rather feeble in comparison to that of Holly, who receives not only letters from her countless concerned relatives, but also packages full of sweets, clothing, and Quidditch supplies. Recently, her mum has taken to shipping informative reading on the many fields of psychology, only helping spark the obsession that myself and Peter Pettigrew have been forced to deal with in the past month. 

It was this morning, while I was absentmindedly munching on a strip of bacon and taking a glance at my most recent Potions essay, that a school owl landed before me. Of course, Holly, queen of the mail system, was too busy gloating over her own mail to even notice that I, the less fortunate, had finally received some of my own. Yet, in this past month at school, every time I’ve received mail, it’s never been anything positive. And so, needless to say, I was rather hesitant upon opening two thin letters the owl had clasped between it’s talons. 

“When will my brother ever show any confidence towards my initiative?” Holly complained, looking over a letter written by Neal, the professional Quidditch player I’ve vaguely mentioned over the past year or so, and eyeing the words with a scrunched nose and beady eyes. “He makes it seem as if I’m the laziest person in the world. ‘Oh, Holly, be sure to keep up on your running. I know how difficult it is to get out there on your own, without anyone there to motivate you, but it is imperative for the upcoming Quidditch season’. Honestly, Lily, would you write this fool and tell him that only yesterday I went on a three-mile jog?”

And finally, her attention focused towards me, Holly noticed the owl. And not only that, she noticed the way I seemed to be looking at the owl, nearly challenging it to fly away with the letters.

“Are you going to open those?” she asked, pointing a finger in the general direction of the envelopes, as if the contests weren’t potentially hazardous. She obviously doesn’t know my family all too well. I could see from the postage that the letters were from my parents, as well as Grandmother Evans. I honestly didn’t mind reading letters from my mum, knowing that in comparison to Grandmother Evans’, her letters were completely mild. 

“The dirty, dirty, dirty trollop’s writing to you again?” Holly asked, biting into a piece of toast indifferently, as if I were being ridiculous about the whole thing. I am many things, but ridiculous? I think not. 

Yet, I do praise her on the proper use of Grandmother Evans’ little pet name. She is only to be called a dirty trollop when the use of the word dirty is represented three times. She is three times dirtier than the average trollop. At least in my opinion. 

“You’re being silly,” she insisted, confirming my suspicions that she found my actions to be ridiculous. 

“I swear to you, if you write anything about this on that damn clipboard of yours…,” I warned her, finding my hands upon the parchment, unfolding the letter from within the envelope and reading it to myself, Holly, nosy bugger that she is, reading over my shoulder. 

_Lily, darling,_

_I realize that two letters in one month is probably rather surprising to you, but well, we’re writing once more upon the advisement of one of the staff members at your school. It seems that a certain Madam Hooch feels it’s in our best interests to review the right’s and wrong’s of the world, particularly the consequence in stealing._

_Believe me, I’ve written to this so-called madam and explained that we’ve never had a problem quite like this in the past. We both find it rather difficult to comprehend, seeing as if you’d have asked, we’d have happily purchased this so-called ‘snitch’ you supposedly claimed as your own._

_Remember, love, we are always here for you. Stealing is no way to take out your problems upon the world. Just know that you can write to us whenever you wish._

_Hoping to see some change in you, Mum & Dad_

As if that letter hadn’t been enough, I had yet another to read before reaching over and strangling the hell out of Potter. This next letter was the one I’d been dreading, the one that I knew could only mean trouble. If my mother knew about the snitch issue, then surely, so did my grandmother. Petunia is a human tabloid, I tell you. One word to her ears and the entire neighborhood knows, as long as it isn’t at the expense of her own reputation. Thankfully, such has kept my involvement in the magical world a secret.

Grandmother Evans’ letters are always blunt, always to the point, and rarely providing a greeting or salutation of any sort. This particular letter was no exception.

_I knew the moment I saw that bleeding red hair of yours, fifteen years ago in the filthy hospital your mother insisted you be born in, that you would be trouble. And, missy, let me tell you how satisfying it was to laugh in your dear mother’s face when darling, Pet, informed me of your supposed sticky fingers._

_Although your parents failed to ask for my assistance in providing proper discipline towards you, I took the liberty of writing this very letter to express the immense shame you have brought upon the Evans family. Although, well, as your grandfather so helpfully pointed out, nearly no one in our family knows of the circumstance. Stupid, sodding git should have learned fifty-three years ago, the day of our wedding, that interrupting my train of thought was useless._

She’s telling me. In her presence, I am rarely allowed to get five words at a time into a conversation. Apparently, ‘young ladies are meant to be seen, not heard, although with hair like yours, I can see why you’d try’. 

_Let me just inform you of the life you have ahead of you, little hellion. Living on the streets, drinking liquor out of dirty shoes, and eating that one-eyed cat of yours for survival. Sound appealing? Before you know it, you’ll be turning to the drugs and stealing one of those snitch-bitches won’t be the end of your criminal record. No, I guarantee you, you’ll be serving hard time in a matter of six years._

_I will leave you on this note; shape up or I’ll see to it that your darling monster of a feline gets shaved by my hairdresser._

Dare she forget that her hairdresser is an animal rights activist. Stupid wench. Really, I’m rather glad I’m not seriously in need of anger management. I see how well it’s worked for Grandmother Evans. 

I attempt to avoid my grandmother at all costs and now, I have received a letter from her. And why? All because James Potter can’t keep his bloody hands to himself. If he doesn’t do something about the situation soon, it won’t be Jules who’ll be getting shaved, it will be Potter. I’d like to see him run his hand though his apparently seductive locks once I’m through with him.

Bah. I’ve got to run, diary. It’s the middle of dinner and Sirius Black has taken it upon himself to give the phrase ‘tossed salad’ a literal meaning. 

 


	5. Being Forced To Face Fears  And Failing

  
**Nuttier Than A Fruitcake**   
_Book Two In The ‘Lily’ Series_   
**Chapter Five -- Being Forced To Face Fears … And Failing**   


October 15, 1975  
9:06 AM  
Great Hall

Apparently, there are twenty-four usable hours in every day. Holly informed me of just this as she proceeded to tear the comforter from my bed, hop about upon the mattress, rattling any remnants of a dream I might have had left, peel open my window, allowing for the damned, stupid sun to shine in, and, finally, whip out her wand to throw an _Aguamenti_ my way. Why is there a need in this fascist society for a girl to have a best friend? Why must I conform? Why, why, why? My best friend’s mean. And, sadly, far too athletic for her own good. This incident, as I’ll refer to it, might have been a test for my so-called anger management, which kept me on-guard about how I reacted. But, I’m tending to believe Holly had just returned from her _second_ jog of the morning and was exerting some of her energy upon my poor, tired self. Although I didn’t exhibit any violence towards her, I did warn her that two jogs before nine o’clock in the morning was healthy, yes, but clearly indicates that somewhere within her fifteen years of life, she’d gone absolutely insane.

So, here I am, refreshed as ever, Holly by my side, recounting each and every one of the insignificant details of her two morning runs. The first one had been a bit hesitant, apparently. She’d eased into it. 

“6 AM isn’t made for everyone,”� she claims, completely oblivious to the fact that I’ve been sitting here recording my thoughts on her insanity for the past six minutes. “But, Derek insists that if I’ve got the Spinnet blood in me, a 6 AM run will come naturally. I mean, I’ve gone running at 6:30 before, but never 6 AM. It’s a whole new experience, Lily!”�

And this, my dear diary, is where I proceed to try and flick my scrambled eggs at her. Unintentionally, of course. So not to ruin our endearing friendship. I think her to be insane; she finds me to be a test subject for whatever latest mental disorder her parents have wrote her about. We’ve spawned beautifully into a caricature of normal. 

“So, at six, I only managed to run three miles, which is nothing compared to what Derek and I were doing over the summer. Naturally, as I went to the castle stairs to rest a bit, I started crying. Running is a very enthralling feeling, Lily, especially when you reach that runner’s high you’re looking for. But, when you don’t reach that high, it can feel like hell on earth.”�

A supportive friend might have asked her to explain the ‘hell on earth’ she was referring to, comforted her when she mentioned the tears that had been shed. But, I simply watched as Sirius Black threw grape jam into his scrambled eggs, along with a handful of brown sugar and, last but not least, some ketchup. It was the most sickening thing I’ve ever seen, the boys’ dormitory being the only exception. I still recall that there’d been a half-empty jar of jam in the center of their floor, back when I’d been stealth and trying to retrieve what James Potter had stolen. I’d always wondered if the jam had been eaten or, maybe, if it’d been used for some sinister prank. Seeing Sirius Black smear it on his eggs led me to believe that it was a bit of both.

“What do you think, Lily? 6 AM, 8 AM, or both? I mean, I probably gave you the worst impression about 6 AM runs, but trust me, they’re good for the challenge.”�

When had we gone through 8 AM? Had I completely missed that? Oh, well, what a shame.

“Um, Hol, don’t take this the wrong way, but asking me questions about your running isn’t the best of ideas. Especially since it was because of that runner’s high that you felt the need to drench me in water before nine o’clock this morning.”�

Ah, silence. How I love it. She’s taken to eating her bran muffin, as she does nearly every morning, and picking at her cuticles. Better her cuticles than my brain. As if I’d ever have an opinion on running. I might be considered thin by many, but trust me, the correct description of my body would be gangly, which cancels out any sort of athleticism immediately. Holly knows this. She’s always known this. But, regardless of that, she tends to think I show some express interest in her athletic abilities. But, when they interfere with my dreams of marrying Ringo from the Beatles, enough is enough. Saturdays are meant for sleeping until noon. But, I’ve never been able to sleep until noon. In the summers, Petunia made a habit of inviting small neighbor children up to my bedroom, for money on her part, just to show them the freak who had been shipped off to St. Mildred’s Secure Center For Incurably Criminal Girls. And, this lovely endeavor of Petunia’s was always done before that particularly lovely hour. If she had any decency, she’d showboat my instability after twelve o’clock. But, that’s Petunia we’re speaking of. She _has_ no decency. 

It’s at this point that Holly’s slurping on a protein shake she’d made using the contents of the table, a blending charm she’d insisted upon looking up in the library, and her own desire to acquire the most physically fit body in the world. I’m not kidding, but I believe I saw her throw her bran muffin into the glass before blending. Turning my attention away from one disturbing person to the next, I noticed that the Marauders, actually, only Sirius and James, were huddled together and whispering in the lowest voices that the could possibly manage. And, of course, since Sirius and James were, well, Sirius and James, their lowest voice was still audible to the average ear. 

_This_ was never good. The two of them, huddling, Black forgetting about his jam. It all meant one thing; aggravation for the rest of the world. Someone, somewhere, was going to be receiving the short end of the stick that afternoon. And, I felt sorry for the poor soul to whom it would occur. Potter and Black were the most lethal combination since Bonnie and Clyde, Black presumably playing the part of Bonnie, since he has the proper length of hair that could blow in the wind as the two sailed away from existence after wreaking havoc upon the rest of the population. 

I overheard bits and pieces of their conversation. 

“We could always tie her up, gag her, and throw her in a potato sack to get her down there,”� Sirius had suggested, as quietly as her could. You’d think he’d have a bit more tact about abducting someone, which, from the sound of it, was what they were going to be doing.

“Padfoot, no. Just because you don’t like her doesn’t mean we can treat her like you would any relative of yours. We lure her. We be nice to her. We give her a false sense of security. And, then, we show her the time of her life.”�

“You are getting too bloody romantic for me, Prongs. This plan is the stupidest, most juvenile thing I’ve ever participated in. You’re lucky I just want to see it backfire, or else I would abandon it altogether.”�

“It won’t backfire, you dumb wanker. It’s brilliant. I can already see her throwing herself into my nicely toned biceps, her eyes sparkling with anticipation, and declaring that she’d _love_ to go out with me.”�

“Yes, that could happen. Or, more likely, she throws dirt in your hair and kicks you in the groin. Either way, it’s bound to be quite the show.”�

I could see that Peter and Remus were far too distracted to have anything to do with this master plan of Potter’s. Remus was looking a bit pale, paler than usual. Made me wonder if everything was alright for him. But, I kept it to myself as I was busy shaking my head, feeling sympathy for the poor girl who would be forced to endure the wrath of James Potter and Sirius Black. 

**October 15, 1975  
Gryffindor Common Room   
9:47 PM**

****A lot of time has passed between this morning and now. I realize that. And, trust me, there is good reason as to the vast change in times. A lot has happened to me, dear diary. And I owe it all to my good friends gullibility and ignorance. I am a bloody fool. More than that, I am a sucker, just like the rest of this damned school. I failed to listen to my true instinct and instead was forced to listen to the rumblings of my kind disposition. Yes, I do have a kind disposition. It sits right along with my ‘benefit of the doubt’.

Anyways, somewhere around two o’clock, I’d been sitting beneath an old willow tree, waiting for Holly to return from her afternoon run across the grounds. I’d brought a book, since one could never tell how many times Holly would insist she ‘was nowhere near to being done’. For some reason, the two of us had gone back to talking. It wasn’t my idea, I’ll tell you that. But, here I was, indulging myself in _Little Women_ and awaiting the return of my so-called best friend, when two very strapping young lads (which is a matter of opinion, since strapping is the last word I’d use to describe them) approached me, two silly grins planted upon their faces. Sirius and James, especially James, were looking a bit _too_ happy about something, which only led me to believe that they’d succeeded in completing their plan from that morning. I was sure I’d be hearing about it the next morning in the Great Hall, so I thought nothing of their presence.

“Accidentally snorted Floo Powder again, Black?”� I asked them hesitantly, as they seemed rather content in just grinning and keeping the silence. Made me wonder if they were going to ask me about my Charms notes again, which I would adamantly say no to this time. 

“No, no,”� Sirius said in a sing-song voice, one I had grown accustomed to hearing in the past five years. I hate his sing-song voice. Means he’s far too thrilled about something. Whatever that something was, I had no idea. “But, James here has something he’d like to show you.”�

“A muggle artifact!”� Potter beamed, his arms held behind his back as his knees rocked back and forth excitedly. “Sirius and I were digging beside the Quidditch pitch, since we rather like the smell of dirt, when we came across a genuine muggle artifact. And, since you’re one of the only muggleborn kids at this school that we’re acquainted with, we thought that maybe, just maybe, you could help us understand what it is. We were going to begin taking Muggle Studies this year, but found that Care Of Magical Creatures is truly our calling. But, that does nothing to limit our interest in the muggle world. So, can you help us? Can you help us?”�

They were like two kids robbing a candy store. I should have known. I should have been cross with them. I should have run away as quickly as possible. But, I found myself believing that cock-and-bull story of theirs, a bit anxious, myself, to see what they’d unearthed from the ground. The two of them pulling on each of my arms separately, leading me to the spot in which they intended to offer their muggle artifact to my wise, omniscient eyes, I let my eyes linger around the grounds, locating Holly. She was approaching my willow tree and was probably wondering where I was. In a few moments, surely, she’d sprint her way over and ask what in the name of Merlin was going on. 

But, when we reached the pitch, I saw nothing of a hole. I saw nothing of a shovel. Nor did I see any dirt splayed about anywhere. What I did see was a broom. And, in the moments following, I felt Potter’s hands on my waist, carrying me onto the broom and, suddenly, so suddenly, we were in the air, rising higher and higher with each instant. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t hear anything, as I was screaming too bloody much. Wait, that’s a lie. I did hear something. I heard Potter’s stupid, prat-ish laugh roaring behind me, his arms having crept around me to steer the broom. He knew I hated heights. He knew I hated flying. And, regardless of that, he found some way to manipulate me into it, just because he wanted to prove to the world that I, Lily Evans, was no challenge to him. I was not immune to his charm. I was not different from the other girls within the walls of Hogwarts. He certainly underestimated me, that’s for sure.

I believe I felt his lips on my ear at one point, trying to find my cheek, to which I helplessly tried to jab him in the ribs with my elbow, all the while covering my eyes with my hands and praying for my dear, sweet life to continue. I wanted to feel the grass. I wanted to feel the ground below. And, I certainly did. That jab had come at the perfect time, throwing Potter and me off-balance and tumbling to the ground. Luckily, we hadn’t been fifty-thousand feet in the air at the time. But, the fall was still significantly bruising. Our limbs splattered on the ground, the two of us spitting grass from our mouths, I felt the hot tears fall from the corners of my eyes and, for once, I wanted to go home, to the Evans family. I would have stayed with the dirty, dirty, dirty trollop if it meant being as far away from James Potter as possible. As the two of us managed to lift ourselves from the ground, I looked James boldly in the eye and, a wad of dirt clutched in my hand, managed to rub it into his hair, kneeing him in the groin as I did so. His glasses were crooked upon his face, grass stains adorning his robes, and I swear to you, he couldn’t have looked more dumbstruck. But, as he keeled over from the blow of my knee, I certainly hoped he’d realize that I wasn’t like the rest of the girls. I didn’t particularly like the way he went about things. And I didn’t particularly like him, or his friends. 

As I made my way back to the castle, the tears still flowing freely, I heard Black mutter, “The dirt! And then the groin! Prongs, maybe I’m a Seer!”� before Holly rushed up to me, having seen everything. And, do you know what she said to me?

“Lily, there are always exceptions in life to anger management. I couldn’t have done it better myself.”�

Hell, our friendship _is_ beautiful. 


	6. Lack Of Subtlety

** Nuttier Than A Fruitcake **

_Book Two In The ‘Lily’ Series_

**Chapter Six - - Lack Of Subtlety**

**  
**

 

October 30, 1975 

5:49 PM 

Gryffindor Common Room

Boys are bloody horrible. I hate them with every morsel of this lanky, kid-thin, underdeveloped body I have the misfortune of inhabiting. Forget ‘benefit of the doubt.’ Forget ‘second chances.’ Forget labeling and stereotypes and sexism. I was once a nice, polite, courteous person and, now, those days have come and gone. It is because of boys that I have endured a gradual transformation from a respectable human being into a bitter, cold, shell of a person. However, most of the blame is to be passed onto one boy - a particular boy. Three guesses as to who this boy could be? Oh, fine, diary, I’ll give you that. 1) Stupid hair? 2) Stupid glasses? 3) Stupid ego? Oh, yes, you’re one smart cookie, diary. James ‘I Feel I Must Plague Him With An Awful Middle Name - How About Smarmy Bastard?’ Potter. You may or may not recall a certain incident that, in a word, _traumatized_ me. Let me recap for you : James Potter, who I have known since my very first year at Hogwarts, took it upon himself to give me the ‘ride of my life’ and help me ‘face my fears’ by luring me onto the Quidditch pitch, only to abduct me and send me zooming recklessly into the sky above. And, then, the prat allowed us to fall into the bloody mud. Sounds a little cruel, doesn’t it? The workings of a potential madman in the making? My thoughts exactly. However, you wouldn’t believe this, but the douche, for lack of better word, has taken it upon himself to ignore me.

Let me repeat : _he_ has been ignoring _me_. It’s not like I’ve been reaching out to him following that little episode, but to hear that James Potter feels that I am the one in the wrong is just - just - blasphemous! For the past two weeks or so, he’s been deliberately hinting that he has, in his words and his words alone, washed his hands of me. Now, I don’t know what kind of impression you’ve received of James Potter from my painfully honest portrayal of him within the past two years, but he is a great many things. He is egotistical, he is the most stubborn boy alive, he is extremely full of himself and would probably bathe in his own sweat if given the chance, and he is, of course, the most immature person to have walked the planet. However, he is not subtle. He is anything but subtle. I mean, I don’t understand what kind of game he was playing by ‘pretending to like me,’ but he wasn’t skilled in the stealth department (unlike myself) and made it blatantly clear that he was playing a game of cat-and-mouse. Whether he was the cat or I was the mouse, I can’t be sure. I wouldn’t object to being the mouse, as I’ve caught a few moments of that charming cartoon, “Tom and Jerry,” and the cat is always portrayed as having a significantly lesser intelligence. So, hey, if he wanted to be the cat, I wouldn’t be fussed. I’d just outsmart him each and every time and he’d lick his wounds and, hopefully, one day give up and find another mouse to chase. However, James Potter no longer wants any part in this whole charade that was, needless to say, initiated by him and him alone. As said, his subtlety is something he could do to work on. It didn’t take me very long to catch onto the fact that he was - unfairly, mind you - upset with me for tossing dirt in his hair and kneeing him in the groin. 

** Evidence Of James Potter’s Lack Of Subtlety **

****

1) Later, in the common room, after Potter had, apparently, washed his hair about half a dozen times, he stormed down to the common room and launched into this huge tirade of how he was just trying to be some sort of ‘Don Juan’ and that romancing me was absolutely useless. I couldn’t have agreed more. After I said such a thing, he seemed to get even more frustrated and took to throwing pillows at unsuspecting first years, all of which squeaked out of the portrait hole as fast as their little legs could take them, while he continued screaming at me. Holly, naturally, transcribed the entire ordeal and has taken to psychoanalyzing Potter. I don’t know the details behind this, but I have been known to muttering, “Traitor,” beneath my breath if I notice her scribbling away on the clipboard of hers. I discovered that he would blame the entire Quidditch Pitch fiasco on me when he said - and this is a direct quote - “Evans, this is all your ruddy fault.” As I alluded to earlier, boys are just brainless gits. I, personally, think the Y-chromosome is to blame for the tragedy that was, as he pointed out, supposed to be our first date. 

2) The following note was passed to me on October 16, 1975 :

“Evans, 

Ordinarily, I would refuse upon embarking on this rather despicable task, but due to my alleged loyalty to my best mate, I am under obligation to inform you that a certain James Potter has taken an oath of silence when in your presence. He knows that you have tried this method in the past when dealing with the four of us and has vowed to prove to you that success can be achieved. If you ask me, he seemed to be implying that you were an utter failure. Now, I would like to take this time to say that I am in no way affiliated with that declaration, as, personally, I’ve seen what you can do, Evans. Please respect the fact that I do not, in any way, support the aforementioned statement uttered by my imbecile of a best friend and stay as far away from my cash and prizes. 

Apparently, due to his oath of silence, he is unable to send you notes, as well, even though I retorted cleverly that he wouldn’t actually be ‘speaking’ to you. So, just know that he feels you’ve jeopardized his future as a husband, as a father, as a Quidditch player, and as an underwear model by kicking him in the groin. He feels you violated his personal space and is convinced that, this time, he is right and you are wrong. Just passing on the message.

Yours, Sirius O. Black”

I don’t know what kind of twisted human beings instilled morals in Potter, or the lack thereof, as I’m having a lot of trouble understanding why he would feel a broom ride would be the sure-fire way to sweeping me off of my feet, especially since I have not given him any sort of inclination that I have interest in being romantically linked to him in any way, shape, or form. Obviously, when I kicked him in the groin, he lost any sort of manhood he’d ever had, as evidenced by the fact that Sirius Black has now become his bitch when it comes to dealing with me. Forget the fact that he completely ripped off my oath of silence from last year, which he _forced_ me to break, but whenever he and I have been paired together in a class, Sirius has had to sort of stand in-between us and relay messages. It’s completely childish and has come to irritate me even more than the ever-so-wonderful sound of Potter’s voice. 

3) He has acquired a rather large amount of what I would like to call ‘groupies.’ There is no other word for them. I don’t really understand when this crazy hormonal revolution took place, but it would seem that in a span of one night, the entirety of Hogwarts’ females have become infatuated with Potter. Maybe they’ve always been there, but now that he’s not shooing them off, I suppose it’s become more noticeable. It’s rather hard not to notice, as Holly has been documenting his every move. She’s always commenting in a completely clinical voice, “I wonder what could be the cause of this sudden promiscuous behavior. Patient #067 seems to be snogging anything that exhibits signs of life. Will bring this up during our next session. Must inquire as to whether his developed fear of the color red has anything to do with the unspeakable incident that occurred prior to our last session and whether this has affected his choice in women.” It would seem that Potter deliberately informs Remus of where he shall be ‘entertaining’ his flavor of the week, as Lupin never seems to be the one having to kick them out. It’s always me. Always. And, can I just say, I’ve gotten sprayed with spit far too many times to enjoy the task? Because, I have. Lately, patrols have been followed by baths, as Potter and his bimbos can’t seem to keep the saliva in their mouths. I should ask Holly whether Potter’s mentioned hawking lugies into the mouths of his admirers because, from what I’ve seen, that seems to be his way of laying on the moves. Of course, should I even bring up Potter in her presence, whether to complain about him or threaten to murder him, she seems to shriek, “CONFIDENTIAL!” I really think she needs to concentrate more on her running, as this whole psychologist bit is getting a little old. The point is, I think that the entire school has been slipped some sort of exotic drug or, quite possibly, a love potion. Slughorn is one crafty walrus of a man and, despite the fact that I have him eating invisible pineapples out of the palm of my hand, I could see him turning to the dark side and brewing up a couple hundred gallons of Amortentia for Potter in exchange for a little hand-holding. The man is a whore for attention. One bat of an eyelash from someone of the fairer sex and he’s passing out O’s and E’s like a large, less graceful, wingless version of the tooth fairy. However, I digress. This particular rant is not against Slughorn, but rather, against Potter and his seemingly never-ending crew of faithful minions. A girl can’t even step into the bathroom without hearing, “He copped a feel! He copped a feel! James Potter made a pass at me!” It’s as if sluttiness has become all the rage. Potter truly is dim-witted if he doesn’t know that I see right through this whole “I’m a man whore!” phase. Because, it goes without saying that I am just too clever for my own good and I do see! He thinks that by parading around me with nearly the entire school lusting after him, I’m going to somehow forget about the fact that he’s done nothing but make my life hell from day one. The very last thing I could ever feel for someone as completely disgusting as James Potter is admiration. If he thinks that he’s being sly by asking one of his blonde, oversexed fan girls to “wiggle down in front of Sir Prongs-A-Lot” (whatever that means) at the top of his voice in the common room - midday, mind you - then he is so very wrong. 

What caused this rather long-winded rant against that awful excuse for a human being, you might ask? Well, it would seem he tried sicking one of his groupies on me during dinner and, now, I’ve only just gotten the egg salad out of my hair. He was having a jolly good time laughing and squirming around in his seat as he watched Candy or Trixie or Lulu go ballistic on me for no apparent reason. Oh, wait, in-between her rather annoying wails (how dare she disgrace the female sex by crying over James Potter?!), I did manage to catch onto a bit of it. I guess she heard Black muttering on about how Potter ‘used’ to fancy me and that for the past two weeks, he’d refrained from speaking in my presence. Guess I’m not the only one disturbed by the situation. I imagine Black’s sick of playing the part of messenger. Blondie was obviously the jealous sort and was feeling just the slightest bit territorial. In the end, it was Holly who kicked the nutter in the face and got me out of there. She got detention for it, but she insisted it was completely worth it. Holly may be a bit unhinged, but she is dead loyal. Anyone who would kick some slag in the face for me is alright in my book. Covered in egg salad and sporting a scratch beneath the eye, I could honestly say that my loathing for Potter seemed to just intensify by the second. It would seem that he has a thing for girls in need of anger management. He must be attracted to the abusive sort. I only hope that the bimbo kicks his sorry arse sometime between her visit to McGonagall’s office and her untimely expulsion. 

November 2, 1975 

6:25 AM 

Collapsed On The Castle Steps

Kill Holly. Kill Holly. Murder Holly. Strangle Holly. I don’t know why, but for some reason, I’m having rather murderous thoughts about my best friend. Oh, wait, I _do_ know why. In case you didn’t notice, it’s 6:25 in the morning. In the sodding morning! I didn’t know there was even a six to speak of in the AM hours. I thought, hey, morning must not begin until at least eight o’clock. Ordinarily, I would be snuggled up against my demonic one-eyed cat, Jules, fighting her in my sleep as she mauled my arm to pieces. A nice, thin strand of drool would probably be hanging from my mouth, primarily due to the many dreams I have of that foxy Quidditch player, Ernando Pivens. Holly turned me onto him. Hung one poster of him above her bed and, since then, I’ve been hooked. I could have been dreaming of the deliciousness that is Ernando and, yet, here I was, collapsed on the stone steps of Hogwarts, sniffling a bit, as I tend to get rather weepy when I’m feeling particularly weak, awaiting the inevitable blindingly bright light that was sure to shine my way sometime soon. You see, Holly dragged me out of bed this morning to go jogging. And, considering the fact that I am unaware of how to use my motor skills before 8 AM, I couldn’t object. I sort of just hopped into some trainers and hoped for the best. Two and a half miles in, I died. Literally. Or, well, I’m pretty sure I died. I saw a lot of stars, but then again, that wasn’t so strange, since it was still pretty damn dark. November, early morning .. resembles the night hours a little more than one might think. 

When my knees gave out, Holly didn’t even hesitate. She sort of just lifted me from the ground and put my arm across her shoulder and ran us back to the castle, giving me a slight ‘breather,’ as she called it, before she headed off to complete her run. That girl must be on some sort of performance enhancers because her endurance is just not natural. Apparently, there’s something in the Spinnet genetic code that permits them to just run and run and run like the little circus freaks they are. Some families gather round the dinner table for a little family bonding. Not Holly’s family. She and her mum and her dad and her older brother set out on hikes and kayak adventures and sky diving adventures. They’re nuts, the whole lot of them. It’s a wonder that her mum, a plain Jane psychologist, is such a bit thrill-seeker. Her father is an attorney, too, which makes the whole situation even more trivial. Their risk-taking must not apply to their source of income. 

So, right now, just hoping to go peacefully. Maybe when I reach those pearly white gates, an old chipmunk I saw get hit by a car (my grandmother’s car, as fate should have it) will be there to greet me. Then, at least, I’ll have something to look forward to. 

November 2, 1965 

10:19 PM 

Fifth Year Girls’ Dorm

I didn’t die. I still have the will I wrote last year when I was planning on running away, but I guess that’ll just have to be used another day. I’ll probably end up revising it, as well, since I’m bound to experience a great deal more near-death situations. My life tends to be that bloody awful. Today, of course, was no exception. As I laid there, awaiting death, or rather, awaiting Holly to finish her ungodly morning run, someone stumbled across me and took pity upon my poor lifeless form. Who, you might ask? No, not James Potter. Damn him and his repetitive nature. However, the person I speak of isn’t supremely superior to Potter, either. Logan Johnson - I remembered his name! - happened to have been out for his own morning job (those Quidditch players are nuts) and found my pathetic self murmuring my last wishes. My legs had gone a bit numb, as they were definitely not used to any sort of physical exertion. I have no muscle, mind you, so running has never been my thing. People automatically assume that because I am tall and thin that I’d be a perfect marathon runner, but, alas, I seem to be lacking in every aspect of the athletics department. I tried playing tennis once, got whacked in the head with the ball, and, since then, I’ve never even so much as looked at a racket. Had I been more than .001 percent awake this morning, I might have pointed this out to Holly, but, seeing as time was not on my side, I sort of just nodded a bit and obliged to her every demand. My eyes didn’t even properly open until we were midway through our run. 

Now, Johnson, as you may recall, was the object of my alleged affection last year and, I assure you, he has not forgotten my stalker tendencies. However, he was nice enough to stop and express some concern towards my health and, ultimately, save me from having to run some more with my loon of a best friend. This kind action of his just proves that he is just that much more of a better person than myself, as I highly doubt I’d even give Potter a second glance if I saw him collapsed on the steps. He may be a boring bloke, but at least he’s not completely ignorant of the needs of others. I sort of felt awful worrying him so much, since he was extending such generosity my way by even stopping, but I think that he mistook my numb legs for a serious injury of some sort.

“Lily, what’re you doing out here? It’s still dark! And why are you howling in pain? Are you injured? Oh, blimey, better get you to Madam Pomfrey’s pronto. She’ll know what to do.”

And, to my immense surprise, instead of running off for his own job, Logan Johnson scooped me right up and carried me back into Hogwarts. I’d never been carried around before and, despite the fact that it wasn’t Ernesto Pivens, it was still rather nice. Looking at Johnson, you wouldn’t think he was a strong fellow, but I guess I’m just that child-like that it didn’t matter. I’m sure Holly could bench-press me in a heartbeat, what with all of those performance enhancers I suspect she’s been sneaking into her protein shakes. Personally, it was that moment that made me reconsider all of my negative feelings towards the bloke who I once allegedly stalked for my own personal gain. I mean, he must have picked up on the fact that I was just using him as a means of ending those rumors about myself and Snape. Or, maybe, he didn’t and he still is under the inclination that I’m desperately infatuated with him and want to bear hundreds of children with his DNA in them. At that moment, I didn’t really care. I was just happy to be back within the warm, comforting walls of Hogwarts and far, far away from the lunatic I have sadly been calling my best friend since first year. I could have easily told Johnson that there really was nothing medically wrong with me, but the tingling sensation was still lingering in my lower calves and I highly doubted I could have walked if I tried. Not that I was willing to try, since it is a very rare thing that I receive pampering and I was insistent upon enjoying every second of it. Of course, the pampering didn’t last long as, need I remind you, diary, my life sucks in every way imaginable. I wasn’t even given the chance to over dramatize my lack of running abilities and have a good howl. I guarantee you that had Holly been in my situation, none of the following would have happened. She’d have been able to just rest her head against Logan Johnson’s shoulder and feel like the privileged little princess that she is in comparison to me. 

Johnson was trying to either soothe me or shut me up, as he kept going, “Sh, Lily, calm down,” as he walked towards the Entrance Hall. His efforts were fruitless, however, as I did not calm down and considering the fact that I hadn’t had a good cry in quite some time, there was no stopping the tears from flowing, even if I had _wanted_ to calm down. Soon enough, quite a few people stuck their heads out the door of the Great Hall to see what all the commotion was all about. And, my luck, James Potter is one of the few who lives by the phrase ‘early bird gets the worm,’ as he spotted me and Johnson, a piece of bacon hanging out of his mouth and his hazel eyes looking more quizzical than I’ve ever seen them. He was groupie-free, I noticed, and had I not been sobbing my eyes out, I probably would have taken the time to shoot him a nasty look. However, I probably wouldn’t have even had the spare moment to do so, as within the blink of an eye, that piece of stray bacon was gone and Potter was stepping out of the Great Hall and cornering Johnson and I. It was the first time he seemed to acknowledge me in two weeks and, let me say, it was this incident that made me miss the immature behavior he’d been exhibiting since I’d kneed him in the groin. Potter ignoring my existence is definitely a step-up from the green-eyed monster he turned into once he saw Logan Johnson carrying me about. I swear to you, the air literally thinned. I saw Potter puff out his chest and there were about half a dozen eyes on us and, strike me down if this is a lie, but I literally saw Sirius Black mouth, “It. Is. So. On.”

“Johnson,” Potter said coldly, as if Logan had suddenly become the scum of the Earth in the 0.04 seconds we’d all been standing there. If you ask me, Potter probably takes his fair share of performance enhancers, as well, as his short-term memory is absolutely shot. In that short span of time, he forgot that he was to be ignoring my presence _and_ seemed to forget that Johnson was the Keeper of his team (although I also tend to forget this fact, as Johnson isn’t the most memorable person in the whole wide world). The glare he was giving him was enough to stop my howling, I’ll tell you that much. “What business do you have in carrying Evans around?”

“She’s hurt. I’m just taking her up to -” “Hurt? Hurt? What’d you do to her, you oafish prat? I’ve seen you handle those Quaffles. I can only imagine what you’ve been doing to Evans. Evans, has he been tossing you around? If he has, you can tell me you know.”

At this point, it would seem we all started shouting at one another. It was complete and utter chaos. And, since Potter found it in his power to break out his fists in the midst of this funfest, Johnson sort of set me down and I was left there, screaming at the two of them from the floor. My legs were still numb, mind you. 

“Potter, mind your own sodding business!” 

“I was just trying to help her out!”

“She’s not your responsibility, fool. And, I should know. I am your captain, buddy.”

“I’m not _your_ bloody responsibility, either! Go back to ignoring me, you ignorant wanker!”

It would seem anything on my end was completely useless. They ignored me. Flat out ignored me. The testosterone seems to have overpowered their ability to properly hear. Instead, as they were busy duking it out (from what I heard, Potter broke Johnson’s nose and Johnson kicked Potter in the shins). As I crawled up to the Hospital Wing, I was joined shortly after by those two nimrods and, well, we had a nice lovely chat in which we cleared a few things up with Potter and made him look and feel like a complete arse. Madam Pomfrey pretty much stuck her nose up as me as I explained my ‘injury’ to her. She pretty much sent me off immediately after she’d finished tending to Potter and Johnson. Now, I’m back up in my dorm with Holly, who was pretty concerned about me after she’d finished her 8 mile jog. 

It’s absolutely true that you can learn a few things every day :

1) My body can’t handle physical exertion - _at all._ The words ‘Lily,’ ‘loves,’ and ‘running’ will never be able to exist in the same sentence. I swear to Merlin, if Holly ever tricks me into following her out the door at six in the morning ever again, I will set her trainers on fire. 

2) Logan Johnson is still as boring as ever. I mean, he, too, gets up at the most ungodly hours of the morning to run around the grounds and stay in shape. While I may complain about Holly and her craziness, she is very lucky to at least have some distinguishing characteristics about her. Johnson, on the other hand, does not. As boring as he may be, however, he is seemingly generous and forgiving. It takes a pretty nice person to forget that I once passed him a note that said, ‘I know where you sleep, Johnson.’ 

3) James Potter has no determination whatsoever and, quite obviously, ought to be beaten to death by Hagrid and Bigfoot’s lovechild. 

4) And, furthermore, he is the least subtle person alive and can’t seem to sulk in jealousy when another guy whisks me off to the Hospital Wing and, instead, has to resort to violent measures. He is, in one word, a caveman. 

Maybe, just maybe, Madam Pomfrey will medicate him too much and he’ll turn into some sort of vegetable. Ah, I’m such a sadist where Potter is concerned. Don’t you love it, diary? 

 


End file.
